


Imperatives

by dollcewrites



Category: One Piece
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, dom/sub undertones/play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6525613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollcewrites/pseuds/dollcewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zoro is confident in saying that Sanji is a man who doesn’t do what he’s told.</p>
<p>Which is why, when a command accidentally slips from Zoro’s lips during foreplay, he is expecting to hear the cook’s scoff as he continues to do what he pleases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperatives

**Author's Note:**

> this is, to date, the most insurmountably sinful thing I have ever written. no regrets
> 
> shoutout to pixel, I hope you enjoy this because sub Sanji is our shit B-)

Zoro is confident in saying that Sanji is a man who doesn’t do what he’s told.

  
He is also certain that when Sanji _does_ do what he’s told, he doesn’t enjoy it.

 

Sanji will act how he pleases—he will flirt with who he wants, when he wants. (Which Zoro thinks is too often, and too liberally.) He will pick a fight with who he wants, when he wants. (This is not limited to enemies, but Zoro doesn’t mind that part.) Sanji will smoke when he wants. (Though Zoro has never seen him smoke around children.) He will scowl, laugh, roll his eyes, let his emotions flit through his irises on display. He will serve the ladies first, because he believes it his duty to do so, and that’s that.

 

Sanji will say what he pleases. Sanji will run his mouth, Sanji will argue. His temper will flare up and he’ll let loose. He can curse in french like he learnt how to do so before he could walk. (His vocabulary for insulting Zoro seems to grow day by day.)

 

Sanji will dress how he pleases. He wears suits in the heat as if he doesn’t feel it. He owns an expensive, Doskoi Panda brand apron in pale pink. He has other, more ridiculous aprons, one with the cliché “Kiss the Cook” embroidered on it. (Zoro knows he has one that reads “Blow the Cook” also, and he suspects Sanji favours it more.) He seems incredibly fashion concerned one minute, neat ties and polished Oxford’s, and the next he’s in some horribly coloured swim shorts and a pair of crocs.

 

Sanji does what he wants, and not what he’s told.

 

When Zoro first met him, he was being told he should leave the Baratie, the restaurant on the sea, that fated day Zoro first dueled Mihawk. Zeff, and every other chef, told Sanji to get lost. Sanji refused. Only when he decided for himself that he wanted to go to the Grand Line, did he agree to be the Strawhat’s cook.

  
Sanji won’t listen if he’s made up his mind.

 

He will hunt you down and end you, or seek you out and save you. He would go to hell and back if he thought he had to—but not because someone told him to.

 

You could tell Sanji to leave you, and save himself, and he wouldn’t listen. You could tell him to give up, and he would only try harder. He’s stubborn, loyal, and a martyr to boot.

 

When Zoro offered up his own life in place of Luffy’s, and Sanji tried to do the same—to save both their captain, and Zoro’s dream—Sanji wouldn’t listen to him. He would never have done what he was told, never have sat by. He was going to do as he pleased—die in Zoro’s place, save his nakama. Zoro had to knock the man out.

 

Sanji doesn’t do what he’s told. Which is why, when a command accidentally slips from Zoro’s lips during foreplay, he is expecting to hear the cook’s scoff as he continues to do what he pleases.

 

That being, currently, mouthing at the skin where Zoro’s neck meets his shoulders, with teeth lightly nipping down to the collar bone. They’re in the Sunny’s kitchen, an hour or so after dinner, and the door is locked. The sun has dipped below the horizon, its light swallowed by the waves, but there are plenty of lamps inside causing warm light to flicker over their bodies.

 

Sanji is flush against Zoro’s bare chest, and Zoro is being pressed back against the kitchen’s counter. With a grunt, he flips Sanji around, catching him by surprise. Sanji’s visible eye flashes dangerously.

 

The merging of their bodies becomes an ebb and flow, a competition of sorts, and Zoro loves the rhythm. He pushes again Sanji, grinding his erection against the cook’s hip, and Sanji runs a hand roughly over his chest, pushing back as their lips meet in a fervent kiss.

 

When their lips part, and Sanji’s breaths are uneven and jagged against Zoro’s still parted lips, that’s when it slips out.

 

“Get up on the counter.” The words aren’t growled out; they’re not a loud snap. They are heavy and inflexible; non-negotiable. Deep, gravelly words, ghosted along Sanji’s jawline and breathed into his ear.

 

Zoro is not sure why he orders this in particular.

 

He wants to press himself between Sanji’s gorgeous legs, of course; for Sanji to welcome him. But what the imperative is, isn’t important. It’s the fact that he is telling Sanji what to do. Not asking, but demanding.

 

That’s it: he doesn’t want to fight, to grate against Sanji to get what he wants—he wants Sanji to obey.

 

It’s not that Zoro’s obsessed with control. He’s not a clean freak, he’s not fixated on schedules. He leaves his clothes on the floor sometimes, takes irregular naps, and generally doesn’t care what’s going on around him as long as it doesn’t affect him.

 

But Sanji gets under his skin, in every way possible. They annoy the hell out of each other all too often, they bicker and banter. They also fight back to back, defending each other. When Sanji wakes from his sleep, tormented by nightmares and sweating, the need to protect Sanji thrums through Zoro’s blood. The unease of Sanji runs through Zoro as well, as he strokes Sanji’s hair, wishing for him to be alright. He shares his fears, they share their dreams. Sometimes, they curl up with each other when things are rough, and Zoro wants to crawl inside Sanji’s skin.  


The cook annoys him, frustrates him, and teases him. In the good and bad ways. It’s been creeping up in the back of Zoro’s mind that he’s asking for it, really: Silently daring Zoro. Testing Zoro, by doing things like rubbing his foot against the front of Zoro’s pants under the table. Parading around with that attitude— _You think you can tell me what to do?_

 

It translates to his fantasies: the idea of Sanji submitting to him in the bedroom flooding his thoughts when he lets them run freely. Scenes where Sanji kneels for him, bends for him, begs for him. Where’s he’s not so smug, but instead is desperate and blissed out all at once.

 

But he hadn’t planned on trying it. Sanji seemed too proud, too wild, too free—he’d expected the heel of the cook’s shoe in his face if he ever ordered him around in bed. _Sanji_ was the control freak—the one who ordered the spices in his kitchen alphabetically, cleaned religiously, organised all aspects of life methodically.

 

So when the words left Zoro’s mouth, and Sanji stilled for what seemed like an eternity, Zoro held his breath tight in his chest.

 

He cannot believe his eyes when Sanji slowly moves his palms to the counter behind him, and hoists himself up, settling with legs loosely around Zoro.

 

Zoro meets his gaze, and it’s wavering. One slate blue eye tentatively regards him, the other hidden by a curtain of thick blond hair. As if Sanji himself is unsure what just happened.

 

Zoro reaches up to trail his fingertips over Sanji’s throat, and the other man swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Feeling hesitant, but the thrill of possibility spurring him on, Zoro speaks again.

 

“Lay back.” He uses the same low, controlled tone again.

 

Sanji hesitates again, this time for longer. He opens his mouth, perhaps to protest, and Zoro narrows his eyes.

 

“ _Lay back_ , Sanji.” The words come out sharper this time, the edges of them with a bite.

 

Sanji’s pupils dilate—Zoro doesn’t know if it’s the tone, or if it’s the use of his first name, which Zoro usually forgoes. The cook’s tongue wets his lips, and then slowly slides down until his back is flat against the counter.

 

As Zoro reaches to run his hands up Sanji’s thighs—those corded, powerful thighs he so admires—an idea hits him. “Hm,” He murmurs, placing a kiss gently on the inside of Sanji’s thigh. “Good boy.”

 

And then, Sanji fucking whimpers.

 

That goes _straight_ to Zoro’s dick.

 

This is like Christmas has come early. This is the best present Zoro could hope for. It’s unreal how gleefully and depravedly excited he feels.

 

He runs his hands up Sanji’s thighs, over his hips and to his stomach. His fingers tug Sanji’s shirt from where it’s tucked into his slacks, and he pushes it up to bunch around Sanji’s collarbones. Sanji’s happy trail runs tantalisingly below his waistband, and Zoro can see the rise and fall of the man’s abdomen with every breath. He drags his hands back down Sanji’s abs.

 

“Cook.”

 

Sanji continues to stare at the ceiling. “...Yes?” His voice is rough, but Zoro’s unable to read it. It’s often rough—customary of a heavy smoker.

 

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

 

The abs beneath Zoro’s splayed hands tense. “Fuck you!” Sanji hisses at him.

 

“That’s the plan.”

 

They remain silent for a second.

 

“I’m going to keep going.” Zoro says it as a statement, but leaves it as an option for Sanji to interject and tell Zoro to stop.

 

Which he doesn’t.

 

Removing his hands from Sanji, and stepping back, Zoro crosses his arms. Sanji’s head moves to lift from the counter, probably to look and ask what the fuck Zoro is doing, and Zoro growls.

 

“No looking. Head back down.”

 

“Wh—”

 

“No talking either.” Zoro stares at the rise and fall of Sanji’s stomach as the rest of the blond’s body stills for a moment, and then he carefully drops his head back down. “You’re forbidden to speak. You will only speak if I ask you a question that does not have a yes or no answer. Do you understand?”

 

Sanji swallows, and then he nods.

 

There are so many things Zoro wants to do to Sanji, he doesn’t know where to start.

 

“You look good like this. Spread out for me.”

 

At Zoro’s words, Sanji’s breathing draws ragged from his nose, but he keeps his mouth shut. Zoro smiles in devilish delight and continues.

 

“But you could do better, I know you could.” He deliberates for a second. “Play with your nipples for me.”

 

Sanji’s mouth snaps open, about to protest, and Zoro cuts him off. “Do it, or I’ll leave.”

 

Tentative hands, hands which Sanji takes immaculate care of, reach up to his chest. Zoro watches as he begins to rub at his rapidly perking nipples with the pads of his fingers.

 

Zoro moves forward, rewarding the man by resuming stroking up and down his abdomen. He makes sure to stay out of Sanji’s line of view, and then he hooks his fingers under Sanji’s waistband. The skin there is heated.

 

He pulls the slacks down, and is elated to see an erection straining against Sanji’s boxers.

 

“You’re that hard already? Is it from playing with yourself? You’re so dirty, cook. A real pervert.”

 

Sanji whimpers again, not even bothering to nod yes to the questions. Zoro is struck with how much of a hypocrite he is, because he’s just as hard as Sanji.

 

Zoro runs his hands down, over the fabric, and presses against Sanji’s erection with his palm. He receives a moan from Sanji, the man still playing with his nipples, mouth open and panting slightly. A flush is speckling up Sanji’s chest, moving up and filling out his cheeks.

 

“Mm, see? This is what I was talking about. You look so good right now, Sanji. So filthy, and needy, and appetising. You have no idea how much I want you.”

 

Another moan trembles from between Sanji’s lips, throaty and strained. He presses his hips up, trying to grind himself against Zoro’s hand. Immediately, Zoro removes it, which causes a distressed whine to come from the other man.

 

“Tell me what you want from me.”

 

Sanji is finally allowed to speak. “I want—” he licks his lips, and tries again. “I want you to… touch me. _Please._ Please touch me.”

 

“You’re so hot when you beg.” Zoro very much wants to touch him, honestly. But hearing Sanji beg is like a choir to his ears. “I think you should do it yourself, though, don’t you? Show me how you like it. Touch yourself for me.”

 

Sanji’s hands snake shakily down to his boxers, hooking under the band, and he slides them down. One hand curls in the bunched fabric and the other wraps around his length.

 

Zoro’s own erection throbs painfully as he watches Sanji begin to stroke himself.

 

His hand twists slightly as he pumps his length, and he thrusts his hips up a little each time. Zoro watches him for a minute, enjoying the way his back arches off the counter. It gives him an idea.

 

“Hands by your sides.”

 

Sanji’s motions stutter at Zoro’s command and he’s clearly desperate to keep going.

 

“Now. Palms flat on the counter.”

 

Sanji moves his hands away from himself, placing them facedown on the surface, at his sides. His chest heaves a little.

 

Zoro then wraps his own hand around Sanji, and a moan like a sigh vibrates through the blond’s throat. Zoro does not move his hand.

 

“What, you think I’m going to do this for you? I’m being generous enough by giving you my hand. Fuck yourself for me, cook. ”

 

An utterly illicit sound drags itself from Sanji and Zoro almost wants to reward him with a single stroke, but he refrains. In the next moment, Sanji presses up into the friction of Zoro’s hand. He falls back down with a suck in a of breath, and then he begins thrusting up into Zoro’s hand rhythmically. Precum spills from his tip as his silky length ruts in Zoro’s grip.

 

Zoro knows when Sanji is close—he’s familiar with the way the man’s legs begin to tremble, the way his hair curls damp against his temples, and how his abs tense at the last second.

 

With an _“Ah!”_ Sanji is spilling over his own stomach and Zoro’s hand, arching up in a jerky motion.

 

_Too quick. Fuck!—he must be so into this!_

 

Zoro releases him. “Did I say you could come, cook?”

 

Sanji can only pant roughly, coming back to earth from his orgasm.

 

“And you made a mess. I think you should clean it for me. Sit up.”

 

Sanji pushes himself from the countertop, and meets Zoro’s eyes. His gaze nearly sends a shiver down Zoro’s spine.

 

Zoro holds up his hand, where a bit of cum has dribbled down two of his fingers. “Lick it clean.”

 

Now, Zoro can see the when indignation flashes through Sanji’s features for a moment. But his lips open of their own accord. Zoro extends the two fingers up to hover in front of Sanji’s jaw.

 

And the bastard _looks him in the eye_ as he slides Zoro’s fingers into his mouth.

 

Zoro is painfully aware of how hard he is. Sanji sucks lightly on his fingers, his tongue wrapping around them, licking them clean. Slowly, he draws his head back and lets them slide from his mouth with a pop, swallowing.

 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Zoro mutters. Sanji smirks.

 

Zoro narrows his eyes at the cook. “Off the counter.” He steps back, allowing him space.

 

Sanji cocks his head a little, but he slides off, moving to pull his pants up as he goes.

 

“On your knees.”

 

Blue eyes flit up to meet him again, questioning. Zoro makes no expression, and simply stands with his arms crossed.

 

Sanji sinks to his knees. The act of submission strikes a bolt of hot want through Zoro’s core.

 

Sanji’s eyes fall to the front of Zoro’s tented pants, and a smug smile pulls at his lips again.

 

Zoro stares at him, and then lifts his haramaki over his head. He throws it over to where his shirt is discarded.

 

“Take them off.” Zoro gestures to his own pants, and then folds his arms once more.

 

Sanji’s arm reaches out, and Zoro clicks his tongue to scold him. “ _No hands._ ”

 

Shuffling forward on his knees, Sanji glares up at Zoro as he scrapes his teeth over the flat of Zoro’s stomach. His jaw opens and his teeth clamp over the waistband. He drags the pants down, below Zoro’s boxers, tugging away and then letting go.

 

“And the underwear. Be careful with those teeth, cook, or you’ll be sorry.”

 

Sanji leans in again, and instead of teeth scraping his skin to get a grip, Zoro feels a hot wet sensation. Sanji is dragging the flat of his tongue along Zoro’s v-line, pressing it under the cloth band, and then his mouth is dragging Zoro’s boxers down. His erection springs free.

 

Sanji knows how to tease him even like this—Zoro should have known that two could play at this game. Sanji is playing by the rules, of course, but he’s trying his best to make Zoro lose control himself.

 

_Not happening._

 

_But oh, how he wants to give in._

 

“Don’t make me wait.”

 

Sanji looks up at him innocently, and Zoro curls his lip. _Annoying bastard._

 

“Take me in your mouth, cook.”

 

Sanji’s mouth falls open, and he leans forward, gliding his tongue along the underside of Zoro’s dick, letting it slip easily into his wet mouth. He begins to bob his head slowly, letting dribble coat Zoro’s length and sliding his tongue around and over the head.

 

It feels like heaven—Zoro’s dick twitches—and his eyes close for a moment. Head from Sanji is pure bliss; the man certainly knows what he’s doing, lips pliant and jaw slack as he takes Zoro deeper.

 

Zoro reaches a hand down to stroke through Sanji’s hair. “Good boy,” Zoro praises, voice soft.

 

Sanji, eyes closed, moans shamelessly around Zoro, the hum in his throat going right to Zoro’s dick.

 

“I want to fuck your gorgeous mouth, cook.”

 

A whimper comes from Sanji in response, and the vibration moves through Zoro again.

 

“Can I fuck your mouth?”

 

Sanji nods quickly, not stopping his ministrations at all.

 

“Hold still for me. Hands behind your back.”

 

Sanji complies.

 

“Ready?”

 

Sanji opens his throat, and swallows around Zoro. Zoro's dick throbs in response and he bites his lip to keep from gasping in pleasure. _That’s a yes, then._

 

Zoro starts slow. Sanji’s eyes are closed and his mouth is pliant as Zoro rocks his hips a little, sliding in and out.

 

It feels so good and it's not long before he feels himself come undone.

 

His hands find purchase in Sanji’s hair. He tangles his fingers in the soft strands, and thrusts in again. A high pitched moan comes from Sanji and breath from the blond’s nose puffs against Zoro’s happy trail for a moment.

 

With Sanji’s head in his hands, Zoro rolls his hips faster, fucking Sanji’s mouth. A groan escapes from his own throat.

 

When looks down at Sanji he notices the man has started palming at himself through his pants.

 

Zoro growls and Sanji’s eyes snap open.

 

“Hands—behind—your _back,”_ Zoro punctuates his breathy words with thrusts.

 

Sanji winces, but he complies, refraining from touching himself and holding his hands behind his back, as he lets Zoro fuck his mouth.

 

There’s a rush of power through Zoro’s gut, and he grips Sanji’s hair, tugging slightly. With a few sloppy thrusts that slow to a final jerk, he comes down the back of Sanji’s throat so the man can swallow easily without choking. He pulls back to let Sanji breathe, in a practiced way, even with his orgasm crashing over him and making everything fuzzy momentarily.

 

Sanji gasps desperately and his whole body jerks in a strange way, like a muscle spasm in his back, and he cries out once more, coming for a second time.

 

For a half a minute, they simply wait for their breath to return, heavy breaths dragging over lungs. Zoro pulls his pants back up.

 

Sanji stands slightly awkwardly, and looks down at himself. “I need to change.”

 

Zoro snorts and Sanji shoots him a murderous look. “This is _your_ fault, marimo!”

 

Sanji receives an eye roll for his complaint. “Wait here,” Zoro says. “I’ll go get you clothes.”

 

“You’d better come back, asshole,” Sanji mutters.

 

When Zoro returns with a fresh pair of underwear and a pair of drawstring sweatpants, Sanji is leaning slightly uncomfortably against the counter island, crushing the butt of a cigarette in the ash tray.

 

“Here,” Zoro throws them to the cook, who catches them deftly. He proceeds to move around to the other side of the counter, where Zoro can’t see him change. Zoro snorts again. _Like I haven’t seen you naked a million times._

 

Sanji throws the old pair of pants, the underwear, and a hand towel he used into a basket from under the counter. He picks up Zoro’s clothes too.

 

Zoro follows him out of the kitchen wordlessly, and to the boy’s room. It’s into the early morning now, and the rest of the crew are fast asleep. Franky’s arms are crossed over his chest and he’s dead to the world, Luffy is entangled with his blanket, and Usopp is drooling on his pillow. Chopper is not even visible in his bunk, and Brook must be on watch.

 

After unbuttoning his shirt, left in only the sweatpants, Sanji dumps it in the basket on the floor, leaving the laundry for later—a sign he’s seriously tired. Zoro’s not surprised. He’s exhausted as well.

 

When Sanji climbs into the bunk on the far right, Zoro hesitates to climb into the middle one. His hand hovers over the side of Sanji’s bed.

 

“Can I?” He asks quietly.

 

A soft smile plays at the corners of Sanji’s mouth, and he nods, eyes tilted and sleepy, fine hair more than a little messy from Zoro’s hands.

 

Carefully, Zoro climbs into the bunk. Sanji wriggles under the covers with him until he’s pressed snugly against Zoro’s chest, and Zoro sighs as he breathes in Sanji’s smell and the cook’s hair tickles his nose. The bunks aren’t really made for two, but when they spoon like this, they fit fine, albeit rather a lot like sardines in a tin.

 

He wraps an arm around Sanji’s bare waist. Pressed flush against each other, both of them shirtless, heat emanates from their bodies. Sanji pushes the blanket down a little.

 

Before he can fall asleep, Zoro whispers by Sanji’s ear, “I had no idea, cook.”

 

He feels Sanji tense a little, and he laughs quietly.

 

“Shut up.” Sanji’s words are more playful than stung.

 

“So, can we…” Zoro swallows. “Could we maybe try that again sometime? That whole.. kind of thing?”

 

He feels Sanji nod against him.

 

Zoro will have plenty of time to decide what else he wants to try, and though he’s eager to discuss what Sanji wants and how far he wants to go, he’s more focused on sleep. His body and his eyelids feel heavy, and Sanji feels warm and smooth and comforting pressed against him, even though the bastard has kind of bony shoulder blades. Zoro sighs happily against the nape of Sanji’s neck.

 

“I look forward to it... Night, shit cook.”

 

“Shut up and go to sleep, moss brain.”

 

Zoro’s free arm is under the pillow and his hand is curled on the mattress in front of Sanji, but it uncurls when Sanji’s hand finds it. Their fingers link easily.


End file.
